


For the first time (Since the last time)

by helpiamabug



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-13
Updated: 2010-10-13
Packaged: 2017-10-12 15:31:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/126401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/helpiamabug/pseuds/helpiamabug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A guy named Leon and a guy named Galen walk into a bar...</p>
            </blockquote>





	For the first time (Since the last time)

**Author's Note:**

> I DONT EVEN. WHAT. The plot bunny commands, and I must obey.
> 
> PS. I would love to see the two of these dudes kick ass IRL/ in a game somewhere. Perhaps along the lines of Marvel v. DC or whatever that crappy game series is. Wouldn't YOU buy Biohazard v. Star Wars?
> 
> Also, standard disclaimer applies AKA: all characters not mine, no profit being made, plz to not sue!

Sometimes, Leon really really really fucking hates Washington. Like now, for example, when he's supposed to be meeting the Redfields for drinks at the bar down the street, and some dillhole won't get up from their  
table. He looks like the kind of assbag that Leon usually ending up shooting right in the face after said assbag gives some hysterically stupid rant about how he's going to transform humanity (said speech usually involves lots of evil villain laughter), and right now Leon wishes he could actually get away with discharging a firearm in a crowded bar without having to go to jail, security clearance be damned. No, seriously, this dude is wearing a straight up robe with a hood. Who does that, besides cult members? There's always some dillhole journalist doing a profile on the gentrification of the city, and Leon seriously thinks this guy must be a writer for some hipster rag - he has what looks like a big ass pen and a recorder on the table with him next to his beer.

Leon hates reporters, so there's no way he's letting him stay here. He grabs a chair, drops into it next to the guy, and goes into serious badass secret agent mode. 'Listen, I hate to bother you, but you know, you're kind of in the wrong place right now.' The stranger looks up - and whoa, maybe this dude is a tortured poet or something instead of a journo, big dark circles under his eyes and a terrible buzzcut under the hood, tons of horrified emo wangsting apparently going on at the table. He lifts his hand and makes a weird gesture and gets all up in Leon's grill: 'You don't want this table.'

Leon's head whirls and throbs and suddenly, he doesn't want the table. It's like being back in Spain when that stupid bug was at his steering wheel - he feels leaden as he gets up and stumbles over the chair - he shakes his head, and it clears a little, and he thumps back down onto his seat, ears ringing like a motherfuck, knife out and pressing at the stranger's femoral (under the table) in his (shaking) hand. The stranger is clearly surprised by Leon's recovery, half out of his chair and grabbing at the pen on the table, which - did someone slip something in his drink? - fucking lights up in the kid's hand, sweeping out to rest, buzzing, against his carotid. Leon isn't stupid enough to press his luck on his best days, and certainly not when it feels like he's got the world's worst hangover and someone appears to be threatening to decapitate him with a fucking light bulb. He slides his knife back into it's sheath and raises his hands to the ceiling, silently thanking the Lord that no one else at the bar seems to have noticed their little detente, and also that any minute now, Chris Redfield will kick down the bar door with (hopefully) a sawed off shotgun and a take no prisoners sort of attitude. Their usual Tuesday night, Leon thinks ruefully. 'What the hell, kid?' he asks, and at least the stranger has the grace to look guilty, putting his weapon back down on the table and sliding one of the many shots in front of him towards Leon.

'My name's Starkiller,' he says, 'I just came back from the dead, and I'm looking for a girl.'

Ah. This, at least, is familiar territory. People around Leon are always coming back from the dead - Krauser, Jill, various zombies who want to eat his plentiful and very smart brains for breakfast - and he knows how to handle it this time. He downs his shot of cheap whiskey, and leans in conspiratorially as he whispers: 'Word to the wise, my friend.' (Here Leon sneaks another shot of whiskey to keep those memories of Ada's hand slipping out of his from crowding forward) 'Dead chicks are never worth the trouble.'

Later, Leon has to forcibly remove Starkiller's lightsaber from Claire's purse - twice, because she's convinced that waving it in some poor Hill staffer's face will be the perfect way to find a seat on the Metro during her morning commute - and Jill's hand from Starkiller's ass more times than he can count, even though Chris's stony countenance getting a little pouty at the thought that someone might be more muscular and heroic than he is is goddamn hilarious. He'll probably regret not stealing Starkiller's fancy blaster pistol the next time he's facing some zombie infestation, but as the five of them (yeah, he offered the kid his couch - so sue him, Starkiller managed to drink Chris under the table, and now the two of them are marching down Constitution Ave arm in arm the wrong way talking about how much they love each other) head towards his apartment, he can't help but think about how absolutely balls-out insane his life is 95% of the time, and how much fun he has with it.

Plus, he's still got his fingers crossed that Starkiller doesn't notice that Leon's drop holster has a shiny new lightsaber in it, and Starkiller's currently waving around a napkin roll from the bar.


End file.
